


The Minuet

by Sunnyrea



Series: The War [7]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: 1777, Established Relationship, Fluff, Historical, M/M, New Relationship, aide-de-camps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 13:39:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11358630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: Laurens raises his eyebrows. “You cannot dance?”Hamilton frowns and glances away. “I did not say cannot. Simply I have not learned.”[Laurens teaches Hamilton to dance][Part of a series but can be read as a stand alone story]





	The Minuet

**Author's Note:**

> I am going to say in advance that I am not a dancer and as such my instruction here is only from observation, so it is likely bollocks. But I hope you can ignore that and put it down to crushing boys and neither one actually being any sort of teacher.  
> I also edited this a bit since first posting to fix some historical time line errors, so if you like rereading things, it will be a little bit different now in the war and troop discussions.

Alexander Hamilton sits in the aide-de-camp office in the house of Jacob Smith which currently plays host to General Washington’s headquarters. Tench Tilghman sits to his right and John Laurens catty corner to his left. Across the table, Joseph Reed rubs ink over his forehead as his quill moves furiously in his other hand. Hamilton has sat still for a full minute now watching Reed’s fevered actions, somewhere close to a gallop, he would wager. Hamilton fears very much that Reed may give himself a fit or, at the very least, knock over an inkpot.

“Reed, whatever causes you such distress?” He finally asks.

Reed jolts in his chair and does indeed knock over an inkwell with a muttered, “Blast.”

Laurens slides his chair over quickly, catching the pot before it rolls off the table. 

“Hamilton!” Reed chides as he pulls papers out of the way of the ink stain now spreading across the table. “Must you startle me? And now the table uses my ink instead of my pen.”

Laurens shoots a look at Hamilton who only raises his eyebrows back.

“You did not stain your letter,” Tilghman says helpfully. “The table appears to have seen worse.”

“Ah yes, I shall tell the General such when I must account for my loss of ink!” Reed snaps back making Tilghman appear as a kicked dog.

“Now Reed...” Hamilton starts with indignation in defense of Tilghman but Laurens beats him to the punch with surprising calmness. 

“Reed, it is but a spill as men have all had in writing their letters. You would hardly be the first and one must assume our dear General has done the same at least once over the course of his life.”

Reed looks at Laurens suspiciously. “Yes...”

Laurens holds out the pot to Reed. “And you have ink yet saved. Allow me, I shall find you a cloth for that which was not saved.”

Reed takes the pot and seems to forget how to say thank you as Laurens rises and walks from the room.

Reed frowns. “And I had thought he found me irksome,” Reed says with surprised candor.

Hamilton and Tilghman glance at each other briefly, neither confirming the third man’s suspicions.

Tilghman turns back to Reed. “He does seem to be of brighter spirits recently. You appear to now be a benefactor!”

Hamilton cannot stop a small smile to himself as he suspects he knows the reason for Laurens’ perceived rise of mood. The two of them have grown closer recently, closer than most men would allow but which Hamilton embraces with gusto; kisses stolen in empty hallways, lingering glances whenever they inhabit a room together. They touch hands at any opportunity to pass a pen or paper or glass or any needless thing Hamilton grabs if Laurens should be near with empty hands. When they sit beside each other in the aide–de–camp office, Hamilton sometimes will shift closer so his knee touches Laurens’ under the table. Laurens never moves away.

Long days of work, crowded meals and shared rooms for sleeping allow them little time alone. Hamilton wants to ask... he wants to say... he is not sure what he wants to ask Laurens. Perhaps Laurens wants to say more to him as well. It is all so unclear, so new.

Hamilton is no stranger to such behaviors, such relations among men. Many a sodomite condemned in England was sent to the Caribbean, to St. Croix, by way of punishment. Hamilton has always found it odd that such a thing should rank as high as other contemptible acts like murder or treason. Perhaps Christian faith and morals say such acts are reprehensible but Hamilton has seen what those who dub themselves Christians will do to their fellow man simply because of a shade of skin. What is considered unmoral is not always so and what is considered legal is often cruel. What Hamilton feels, what he wants, from Laurens cannot be so wrong.

“Now Reed,” Laurens says as he walks back into the room with a rag in hand. “We may clean you up.”

“You need not phrase it so,” Reed pouts.

“It is correct,” Tilghman says as he holds a tea spoon with sealing wax over a candle.

Reed glares at him.

“Fine then,” Laurens allows, “we may clean up the ink.” He holds out the rag to Reed.

Reed nods stoically. “Thank you.”

Laurens nods, “at your service,” then walks around the table back to his seat.

As he sits down, Laurens glances up at Hamilton with a smile. Hamilton rather wishes his stomach would not flip so when Laurens smiles at him. It causes such a strange expression to contort his face that he is forced to look down to hide it every time.

“Are you well and ink free now?” Tilghman asks Reed.

Reed looks up, the rag in his hand half black, and nods. “It appears so.”

Reeds’ belief, however, is not the case, as there remains a long line of ink across the man’s forehead. Hamilton glances at Tilghman then Laurens, wondering which of them should say so to Reed. The corners of Tilghman’s mouth quirk up but he appears far more eager to let the rumple of Reed’s person continue thus. Laurens concentrates on his page so the task seems likely to fall to Hamilton.

“As to your ink...” Hamilton begins.

“Hamilton, please,” Reed interrupts. “Should you say more you will likely cause me to spill my pot yet again. I must complete these orders as the army is to move on to Germantown toward the British and battle and you are certainly aware of the time and energy required to make the camp ready and I need not waste time on spilled ink, if you please! ”

Laurens looks up slowly, biting the edge of his lip. He glances at Reed then back to Hamilton. He smiles benignly then gestures to Hamilton. “Come, Hamilton, I would hear you. What would you say?”

Hamilton glances at Laurens. “It is of little consequence.”

Laurens bites his lip harder in an attempt not to laugh.

Tilghman snorts ungentlemanly-like and only shakes his head as he pours the melted wax onto his waiting letter. “Indeed.”

“Indeed!” Reed echoes indignantly as he resumes writing, the rag cast on the floor.

Laurens and Hamilton look at each other again, mutual amusement between them. Hamilton feels Laurens’ knee press against his under the table. Hamilton smiles and thinks of kisses.

 

Come evening, the aides join General Washington for dinner to eat and discuss the plans for engaging the British once more. The talk lends chiefly toward Germantown and British occupation of Philadelphia.

“Reed, what have you done to your face?” the General asks as Reed belatedly joins them.

Hamilton catches Reed shoot him an angry look which Hamilton pretends not to mark. Beside him, Laurens nudges his foot in a conspiratorial manner so Hamilton nearly laughs. Fortunately, he keeps his continence.

“I hope we will be afforded the opportunity to retake the city soon,” Hamilton begins by way of conversation to Laurens beside him, “I should like to see Philadelphia.”

“Yes?” Laurens asks.

Hamilton nods as he reaches for the jug of ale in the middle of the table. “I have spent much of my time with the army in New York.”

“And for schooling as well, as I understand, Kings College?”

Hamilton looks at him in surprise, his hand with the jug stilling. He had not told Laurens that yet.

“Yes, I did not –”

“Oh...” Laurens says, his expression suddenly cautious. “I had asked... well I wanted to know more of... It seemed right to...”

Hamilton smiles fondly. “Yes, Kings College.”

Laurens clears his throat, taking the jug from Hamilton’s hand before Hamilton can pour any for himself. Hamilton does not mind, however, as Laurens’ fingers brush over his as he takes the jug.

“As to Philadelphia, it is a fine city, surely one of the greatest in our colonies.” Laurens smiles, his expression something more, something sweet as he pours some ale for himself and then some for Hamilton. “I can imagine you would look very fine at any assembly among the Philadelphia elite. Yes, many of them are Quakers but a dance is a dance which, I would imagine, even they could allow.” He puts the jug down again and nudges Hamilton’s cup closer to Hamilton’s hand. “Your uniform would fit as well as any attire for a minuet or a country dance.”

Hamilton laughs once. “Good attire or no it would do me no good should I gain such invitation.”

Laurens’ lips quirk as he watches Hamilton. “Do you think your uniform not suiting enough?”

Hamilton laughs again. “Not my attire but as I am not learned in such dances I would make a poor assembly guest.”

Laurens raises his eyebrows. “You cannot dance?”

Hamilton frowns and glances away. “I did not say cannot. Simply I have not learned.”

“Never learned to dance?” Laurens says incredulously. “My! Such an upbringing would have been far more pleasing to me than such hours I endured with my dance master.”

Hamilton’s jaw clenches and he keeps his eyes on his plate. He thinks of rain, trees fallen in the street; he thinks of a ledger with line after line of imports, mostly in barrels yet some breathing, some human; he thinks of his mother’s sickly cries; he thinks of his own breath forced and feeble.

“My upbringing did not allow such time for frivolities,” He says quietly as he cuts a piece of beef on his plate.

Their corner of the table is quiet a moment. Down the table, Tilghman speaks loudly with John Fitzgerald about the problems of desertion while his Excellency compliments the houses’ owners on their cooking for likely the fifth time that day. Then Laurens covers Hamilton’s hand beside his plate and squeezes it quickly. Hamilton glances up at him. Laurens’ expression is apologetic. Hamilton wants to tell him he need not be so; Laurens knows nothing of Hamilton’s past and Hamilton knows little of his. Oddly, against his usual inclination and better judgement, Hamilton wants to tell Laurens almost everything.

Laurens pulls his hand back and picks up his fork again. He taps it on his plate a few times, sending some peas skittering about. “As to dancing...”

Hamilton huffs. “I have danced. Has not any man managed a jig?”

“A jig, of course.”

“It is easy enough to pick up.”

“The minuet is not.”

Hamilton purses his lips. Laurens nods once as though the dance were the most serious matter concerning their army.

“I need not relate to you how many hours I spent in practice and how many missteps I made in both public and private along the way to mastery of the dance.” Laurens tits his head. “And I would still not consider myself a master as dances and assemblies are, by most standards of presentation, not my favored gathering.”

“No?”

Laurens frowns and stabs some of the errant peas with his fork. “Such formality to maintain, the endless tittering of women and the crush and heat of so many angling for... well...” Laurens looks away. “They become tiresome.”

Hamilton would not wish to disagree with Laurens’ assessment but Hamilton himself feels as though he could do with a few more formal assemblies and dances. He wonders how Laurens looks when he dances. Hamilton is used to observing Laurens at work, quill in hand, bent over papers, occasionally out in the field or on horseback but at a dance, grand halls and candelabras and women in bright colors? He tries to imagine Laurens out of his uniform, in some more southern courtly fashion. Hamilton licks his bottom lip unconsciously and presses his leg against Laurens’. If the expression on Laurens face is any indicator, and if Hamilton flatters himself, Laurens ponders similar thoughts about Hamilton.

“You have attended many assemblies and balls?” Hamilton manages to ask.

“It is our Southern way.” Laurens ducks his head, almost demure. “Conversation and dancing all found in stately plantation ballrooms. I would imagine you disappointed, however; I am much a wallflower.”

Hamilton smiles and feels charmed.

“But,” Laurens continues, “I should wish to attend an assembly with you.”

“Should our duty allow.”

Laurens chuckles. “Sometimes the dance is the duty.”

Hamilton takes a quick gulp of his ale, the strange vision of Laurens by his side on the dance floor distracting him from proper words.

“If only you could dance,” Laurens says quietly finally picking up his fork and eating his peas.

“I shall have to find a spare moment to learn,” Hamilton allows.

Laurens taps his fork on his plate again. “Yes...”

Laurens’ expression is contemplative. Before Hamilton can inquire, however, as to the occupation of Laurens’ mind, the General stands up at the end of the table. The aides all rise in a flurry, Tilghman nearly knocking over his plate in the processes.

“Gentlemen,” General Washington raises his glass, “to our hosts who have been most hospitable despite our continuous need.”

Jacob Smith waves his hand in clear dismissal of Washington’s remarks. “Only glad to see you again upon your return, your Excellency.”

The General gestures with his glass again and the aides all pick up their cups and glasses. “Still, we thank you for your continued hospitality.”

“Here, here,” says Fitzgerald.

They toast their hosts and drink their ale and, as Hamilton sits down, he thinks of twirling dresses and tapping feet, of Laurens holding out his hand and music playing on violins.

 

The next morning finds every aide–de–camp in seat in their office transcribing page after page of new orders for the army’s movement toward Germantown. Hamilton writes letter after letter about monies owed to many of their past headquarters used along their march, most for only a couple days; he wonders privately how much of such funds should actually find their intended way. Beside Laurens, Tilghman keeps cracking the knuckles of his hand causing Reed to shiver in dislike at the noise. Richard Kidder Meade writes orders for the southern portion of the army, his foot tapping across from Hamilton and occasionally humming when he folds a finished letter. Fitzgerald sits in the far corner of the room, earning himself a private table piled high with books, endlessly remarking on the nature of food and rations to the room at large. Hamilton does not envy him.

“Must you tap so?” Fitzgerald snaps to Meade.

Meade looks up sharply. “I do not tap.”

“You do,” Reed and Laurens say together.

Meade frowns. “If I have, I am not conscious of my action.”

“Then endeavor to be so!” Fitzgerald insists. “I have worries enough without your distraction.”

Meade shuts his mouth and sits up straight in his chair, both feet still.

“Fear not, Meade,” says Laurens with obvious reproach. “Fitzgerald surely does not mean to behave an ass toward one so obliging as you.”

Meade’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. Hamilton cannot stop a grin.

Fitzgerald looks at Laurens sharply but sighs almost at once. “No not mind me.” He rubs his hands over his face. “I have read more of bread on this day then all my life.”

Tilghman and Reed both chuckle. Tilghman picks up the half-finished plate of bread and butter near the middle of the table. “Care for a morsel more?”

Fitzgerald groans.

Laurens waves at Tilghman. “Better it not be on the table with Reed’s habits of late.”

“Now see here!”

Hamilton snorts along with Meade and Tilghman’s laughs before Reed can pull himself into any high dudgeon at Laurens’ joke. Laurens grins at the other men, blotting the bottom of the advancement orders Hamilton reads at his wrist, Laurens’ wrist nearly touching his.

“I see you all work diligently.”

The men look up to see Robert Hanson Harrison standing in the doorway.

“What ho, Harrison?” Meade asks.

“I am come for Fitzgerald. We are to accompany the General into the lines.”

Fitzgerald frowns. “Yes?”

Harrison gives him a look. “You need not concern yourself with rations for a few hours now.”

“Then I welcome the ride.”

Fitzgerald stands and joins Harrison in the doorway. "And Laurens?" Laurens looks up with eyebrows raised. "I have not yet the orders but the General would have you know that your position as aide-de-camp is to be made official."

"Well now,” Tilghman says with a quiet whistle.

Laurens and Hamilton glance at each other with identical expressions of approval. Laurens turns back to Harrison with a nod. "Thank you, Harrison."

“Just the right amount of months since Johnston's death for you to fill his vacancy, Laurens,” Reed quips as the two aides exit the room.

Their previous fellow aide-de-camp, George Johnston, died of an illness back in Morristown several months ago. Hamilton knew him only marginally from their work together.

“Reed!” Tilghman chastises. “Though it has been many months since we lost Johnston you need not be so flippant.”

“I am not.” Reed glares then looks back to his papers. “I am realistic.”

The room falls quiet for a minute or two, the movement of quills slowed with the implications of death and position.

Laurens finally breaks the silence, “I would not wish my title as aide-de-camp to come at another man’s loss.”

Hamilton thinks it would be a right time to kiss Laurens had they been alone.

 

As it happens, come evening, they are alone.

After the evening repast, Fitzgerald and Harrison return to the lines with the General, speaking to officers among the men and finishing their assessment from earlier in the day. Reed retreats high above stairs, claiming a headache while Meade works to determe their next accommodation for the General's headquarters once they move onward. Tilghman returns to the office with Hamilton and Laurens for a time until one of the household staff calls him away.

It is not until Laurens speaks, however, that Hamilton notices their circumstances. “In regards to our conversation yesterday…”

Hamilton looks up with interest. “Which one?”

“Dancing.”

Hamilton’s lips quirk. “Oh?”

“I think you should learn.”

“We did establish that need.”

Laurens puts his quill down beside his report. “I can teach you.”

Hamilton stares at him for a beat then puts his pen down as well. “Teach me to dance?”

“As you said, you can manage a jig, but a minuet.” Laurens makes a face of dismay though his demeanor is entirely amused and pleased. “A minuet is a far more difficult manner of step.”

“Of that I am aware but I knew not you were a dancing master.”

Laurens chuckles. “I know the dance, you know to observe.”

“I could.”

“So we might try it.”

Laurens stands up, walks around his table then pushes it slowly back against the wall under the windows.

Hamilton looks about them in surprise. “What, now?”

“And why not?”

“We have work.”

“It can wait yet.” Laurens smiles and looks somewhat unsure as he stands across the table from Hamilton. “It can be brief if you should wish.”

Hamilton watches Laurens, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes shifting about the room. 

Then Hamilton stands up. “It need not be brief.”

Laurens smiles broadly then strides over to the door of the room, closing it. The two of them push the other two tables and chairs back, careful of ink and candles. The light is not good but it is just the two of them.

“Now there are three sections of the Minuet, the introduction.” Laurens makes a bobbing motion across the room in a straight line. “Followed by the circle... I am sure there is a more proper name, of course, but I cannot recall it.” He moves in a sort of S shaped motion about the small space. “Followed lastly by the joined hands.” 

He reaches out and grips Hamilton’s hand, pulling him in a clumsy turn. Hamilton chuckles as Laurens lets go of his hand, leaving Hamilton back where he first stood. 

Laurens smiles, “Yes, I imagine I appear less graceful and more comical on my own.”

“No, I fear more that I shall disgrace you.”

Laurens shakes his head, a small smile and an expression Hamilton can only describe as entirely fond. “You could never.”

Hamilton considers simply kissing Laurens, in place of dancing, until his back is against the wall stopping anyone coming in and interrupting them. He could touch Laurens where Hamilton has not yet been able; find out where Laurens is soft and Southern refined and where he is hard and rough. He wonders what sounds Laurens might make, where Laurens may wish to touch him in turn. 

Hamilton blinks himself back into focus to see Laurens still watching him with a small smirk. Hamilton realizes he is staring with what is undoubtedly a wanton expression on his face.

“Shall I commence?”

Hamilton only nods, not trusting his voice.

“You must first learn the motion of your feet.”

Laurens steps forward, takes two longer steps followed by four quicker, short steps, at least Hamilton believes it is four.

“Like so,” Laurens says. He walks normally backward toward the other end of the room to display the motion again. “You must rise up on the front of your feet and down again as you step.”

“Bobbing like a bird?”

Laurens chuckles. “Just so, and were I wearing proper dancing shoes you could see it far better.”

“Then remove your boots,” Hamilton says boldly.

Laurens stumbles once in his short steps and stops. “I...”

Hamilton smiles innocently. “If your boots are not serviceable for such instruction then would not your stockings serve better?”

Laurens looks at him for a moment, bites the edge of his lip briefly then smiles. “I can find no argument.”

“And should you not,” Hamilton counters. “You did say you would instruct me.”

Laurens makes an ‘hmm’ noise that sounds as though it has little to do with dancing. Then he walks to one of the chairs by the wall and sits. He pulls at the heel of his one boot, easing his leg out slowly. For so simple a task, Hamilton cannot help but stare. Laurens gets one boot off, slides the shoe under one of the tables then pulls at his second. He struggles for a moment so Hamilton strides across the room, crouches low and helps Laurens pull the boot off. Hamilton holds up Laurens’ boot with his one hand, the other gripping Laurens’ ankle for balance. Laurens stares down at him. The angle accents the muscles of Laurens’ thighs so Hamilton wants to run his hands up and over them at length. Then Laurens takes the boot from Hamilton’s hand.

“Thank you,” Laurens says quietly.

Hamilton lets go of Laurens ankle and stands up. “At your service.”

Laurens stands up abruptly, close to Hamilton. He reaches out and touches Hamilton’s hand. “Hamilton, I hope I can –”

“Yes.”

“You know not what I ask yet.”

“I do.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Laurens leans down and kisses Hamilton, slow and deliberate. He tastes like tea, like ink. Hamilton runs his other hand down Laurens side, reaches Laurens’ hip and holds on. It is like a dance itself, one they are learning together with lips and hands.

Laurens pulls back. “You have my boots off now, Hamilton.”

Hamilton smiles.

“And you have not danced a step yet.”

Hamilton chuckles and forces himself out of the embrace. “Then continue, oh Instructor Laurens.”

Laurens makes another ‘hmm’ noise. Then he turns to the side so he faces the far wall. He waves at Hamilton. “Stand beside me.”

Hamilton slides next to Laurens facing the wall.

“Remember,” Laurens says as he reaches down and takes Hamilton’s hand. “Think up.”

Hamilton glances up without meaning to, making Laurens chuckle. “Your feet; stay up as though nearly to be on your toes.”

Hamilton shifts onto the balls of his feet, rising up just a touch taller. Laurens smiles as he does the same, “Exactly.”

“So you move forward two long steps, one, two, three,” Laurens continues pulling them both forward languidly to the beats. “Then down to your heels quickly before back up into the short steps, four, five, six.”

Hamilton glances down at Laurens’ stockinged feet, trying to match his ups and downs. They move forward with the same long and short steps a second time, reaching the end of the room.

“I feel a fool,” Hamilton says as Laurens walks backward toward the other side of the room, Hamilton following in front of him.

“Why?”

“We are bobbing like birds.”

“As you said.”

“To no music.”

Laurens makes a noise of assent then nods. “Try these steps again and soon I shall give you music.”

“I did not know you played,” Hamilton says dryly.

Laurens only smiles as Hamilton shifts beside him once again at the end of the room. Laurens holds out his hand for Hamilton which he takes.

“Shall I count?”

“Please.”

“One two three,” long step, long step, “four, five, six,” down then short, quick, short. Hamilton grins as they repeat the motion in time; he rises with Laurens and they stop on the same spot.

Laurens grins at him. “As natural as breathing.”

Hamilton scoffs. “Not so natural as that.”

“But you take to it well.” Laurens looks him up and down, their hands still together. Hamilton imagines he might blush so he lets go of Laurens’ hand.

“So, I have my bob, what now?”

Laurens glances around the room. “Now we have some limit to our space.”

“I imagine a southern gentleman such as yourself can make a dance floor out of any room he chooses.”

Laurens gives Hamilton a look but he smiles still. “So I shall.” He holds out his hand to Hamilton. “Come here.” 

For some reason the casualness, Laurens’ words and the sudden familiarity of the two of them holding hands so easily hits Hamilton in the stomach, in his bones. He grips Laurens’ hand hard and does not wish to let go. 

Laurens looks at him, his thumb rubbing over Hamilton’s. “Follow me.”

They start back at the end of the room, dancing their bobbing step until they near the other side. “And then we both turn outward,” Laurens says.

Laurens curves to the left while Hamilton curves right, keeping his eye on Laurens. Laurens keeps his arms up, glides back to the middle of the room, setting them both up on that same straight line. “And then we step again,” Laurens says.

So they go, long up and down short, smoother and easier each time.

“Depending on the piece played we may do this twice or three times more.”

“Just up and around?”

Lauren nods. “One must fill the time with such repetitive formality.”

Hamilton smiles as they curve around and grip hands once more.

“And then it becomes more complicated.”

“Of course.”

Laurens positions the two of them in the center of the room. “We circle around one another.” He curves off to one side in a wide oval until he nears Hamilton again. “Returning to each other at the center.”

“While bobbing?”

“Dancing is the word.”

“Ah yes.”

Laurens sighs. “It is more instruction than I can provide you in a night.”

Hamilton smiles, wishing for more nights, more time. He reaches up and touches Laurens chin. “Try.”

Laurens stares at him, his breath catching. He grips Hamilton’s hand at his chin. Hamilton smiles up at him, enjoys the feeling of Laurens’ hand closed around his. Then Laurens drops their hands and positions himself as dance instructor once more.

“You will move forward, then to the side, together then backward, several times.” He moves around Hamilton, his feet practiced, his rises and falls like small curtseys. “It can be hard to follow,” Laurens says as he steps backward from Hamilton in time. “And then the man holds his hand out to the woman.”

Laurens waits for a moment across from Hamilton. He raises his eyebrows at Hamilton.

“Oh!” Hamilton holds out his hand to Laurens. “This is my part.”

“Were you to dance this dance without me then, yes, it would be your part so better to learn it now.”

They move hand in hand for a moment, Hamilton at a near shuffle while Laurens stays on his toes, his feet crossing over each other’s path, sometimes forward and others to the side. Their circle around is stunted even by Hamilton’s unknowledgeable eye due to the room but they are both aware the dance lesson is mostly a farce. Laurens turns them to face each other and gestures with his head toward Hamilton’s other hand. He holds it up and Laurens takes it in his so they hold each other’s hands arm length apart.

“And then you move in the same circle together, up and down, long steps and short.”

Laurens tries to pull them in the proper directions despite Hamilton supposedly having the lead. He moves backward, curving them around, so Hamilton must follow. He looks down at their feet, tries to keep the fluid up and down motion as Laurens does.

“It is fine,” Laurens coaxes, “follow me.”

Laurens starts to hum. It is a simple tune, something better played on strings but Hamilton believes he recognizes it, perhaps Handel. Hamilton follows Laurens, stops looking at their feet and watches Laurens lead them in looping patterns, threads their fingers together instead of the careful fingertips over palm. Their arms start to sag, drawing them closer, beyond the bounds of such a dance’s propriety. Soon they are close enough for Hamilton to let go with one hand, to touch Laurens face, to run his fingertips down Laurens’ cheek. He suddenly wishes they were not dancing, not in this room, but somewhere darker, somewhere private. He glances at the door over Laurens shoulder and notices for the first time that Laurens shifted two of the chairs in their dance floor creation so they block the door; no surprises. Hamilton smiles at Laurens, rubs his thumb over Laurens’ lower lip so Laurens stops humming and they both halt their informal minuet.

“You are a fine teacher,” Hamilton murmurs.

“Yet your dancing needs much improvement.”

Hamilton chuckles as he slides his hand along Laurens’ jaw until he grips Laurens neck and pulls him close. Laurens folds down to him, their height difference somewhat less with Laurens lacking his boots. Hamilton leans up into their kiss, feels Laurens’ hands on his hips. Laurens runs his hands up Hamilton’s back, into his hair. Hamilton kisses him harder, the press of his tongue and warmth of his mouth.

It is new and fresh and exciting and dangerous, of course; they both know it. But Hamilton enjoys the danger, likes that no one should know how he touches Laurens now, his hand on Laurens’ hip, over his thigh. Hamilton knows his hair will suffer for Laurens’ hands in it, pulling to angle Hamilton another way and he willingly moves as Laurens’ wishes. His own hands wander, bolder still as he kisses more, curves a hand back around Laurens hip to his ass. Laurens chuckles into their kiss, Hamilton pulling them flush against each other as he squeezes. He has not been called timid before and Laurens is not an exception. He rises up on his toes to rub their arousals together through their breeches, pressing close because all he can think about now is how much he wants to touch.

“Hamilton,” Laurens gasps low and needy but steps back, his hands still in Hamilton’s hair. “You cannot tease me so.”

“What can you imagine I tease that I do not intend?”

Laurens kisses him again. “Not here, not this room.”

Hamilton groans, forcing his eyes to focus on the room around them, at the quills and stacked letters and sticks of wax.

“It can be quick. I need not –”

“I do not want you quickly,” Laurens says in a rush. “I want you as long as I may have you. I want each part of you, all of you in turn; I do not want a stolen moment.”

Hamilton stares at him and thinks he should have composed such poetry as Laurens said in truth.

“I would give you that.” Hamilton kisses Laurens again, feel an odd sense of validation, as if somehow he still feared that Laurens and he were only an accidental kiss and not something more. “But... but we may not have that,” Hamilton says half rational and half in lust.

Hamilton runs his hands down Laurens hips again, smells the wool of Laurens uniform, feels the buttons click against his own.

Laurens press his forehead against Hamilton’s, his nose on Hamilton’s cheek. “Not here. We cannot.”

Hamilton sighs, closes his eyes, thinks of the General’s aghast face should he catch them out. Then he opens his eyes again. “You are right.”

“I wish I were not.”

“There are other rooms.”

Laurens chuckles.

Laurens takes a step back from Hamilton, though his hand slides slowly down Hamilton’s arm as if he would rather stay connected forever. Hamilton feels the electricity until Laurens’ hand drops from him, a crackle of the new and unfinished.

“I only wish us to be careful,” Laurens says quietly. “If we really...” He pauses then pushes on. “If we truly wish to continue thus then we must be careful.”

Hamilton nods. “I know and I do wish to know you better, as well as you will allow me.”

Laurens smiles. “Good.”

Hamilton steps close to Laurens again and kisses him quickly. “It is late.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Too late for solitude in bedrooms.”

Laurens touches Hamilton’s hair, smiles down at him. “The war is not over yet, Hamilton.”

Hamilton smiles back. “It is not.”

“So you have me yet.”

Hamilton feels something odd in his chest at the words, at ‘you have me.’ “And you need to teach me still.” Laurens eyes widen and his breath changes. Hamilton wishes to save the moment for eternity. Then he says, “my dancing.”

“Yes,” Laurens breathes out slowly, “your minuet.”

“I hear it is abysmal.”

“I did not say such.”

“Hmm.”

Laurens smiles. “We shall have to find a large space if you are to learn properly.”

Hamilton huffs. “We may need to find a lawn instead with the lodgings we are accustomed to.”

“I would give up your dancing lessons to have you close instead.”

Hamilton grins. “Good.”

They hear footsteps in the hall, someone walking past the door then continuing away. Hamilton steps back reluctantly then walks over to where Laurens’ boots stand by the wall. He picks them up then returns to Laurens. He puts his palm against Laurens’ chest and walks him backward until Laurens sits down with a thump on one of the chairs against the door.

“You should put your boots on.”

Hamilton kneels on the floor, pulling one of Laurens’ legs out, fitting the boot over it. He pulls at the boot, Laurens’ leg shifting until the boot reaches just below Laurens’ knee, snug in place. Then he touches Laurens behind his other knee, Laurens’ leg uncurling languidly. Hamilton considers pulling down Laurens stockings instead, pushing up his breeches. His hand lingers on Laurens inner thigh near his knees. He hears Laurens breathe change, a hitch, an inhale. Hamilton smiles in some triumph. Hamilton picks up the other boot and fits it over Laurens’ foot, pulls harder than before, faster, so Laurens gasps again. Then he looks up at Laurens, his hands on both of Laurens knees. Laurens looks very much as if he is reconsidering the idea of playing it safe. Hamilton smiles slowly and decides playing the long game is not so terrible a thing.

Hamilton stands up, making Laurens sit up straighter on the chair, his legs apart with Hamilton between them. “There,” Hamilton says quietly.

Laurens looks up at him, whispers, “Yes.”

Hamilton thinks the sight of Laurens looking up at him, his cheeks flushed, his hand on Hamilton’s hip, the expectation, the want in his eyes, is a sight Hamilton may replay in his head forever.

“I think perhaps you are bewitching me, Alexander,” Laurens says softly.

“I shall do better when I learn your dance.”

Laurens grins, some of his rationality obviously returning. “And we shall have your boots off next time so I can judge your proper form.”

Hamilton feels turned for a loop this time. He imagines Laurens spread over him, hands on his shoulders, hands moving lower. “Oh...” 

Laurens squeezes Hamilton hips then pushes him backward two steps so he may stand, Hamilton forced to look up at him once more.

“This is the longest we have ever been alone,” Laurens says as if an afterthought.

Hamilton glances around the room then back to Laurens. “Can we not stay?” He steps close and slides his arms around Laurens. “It would not be my first night without sleep.”

“Certainly,” Laurens plays along. “You can practice your dance steps.”

“Remove my boots.”

“Or more.”

“Certainly more.”

Hamilton leans up and kisses Laurens again, his hands dancing over Laurens chest. “Stepping on your toes.”

Laurens laughs into their kiss. “All alone, all night...”

Then, as if on cue, someone raps on the door. “What is about?” The doorknob rattles, stuck by the chair in front of it. “It is an office we share, come come.”

Laurens turns out of Hamilton’s hands, moves the two chairs then opens the door to find Meade on the other side.

He frowns at them. “Have you taken over the office as your own war room?”

Laurens stands quietly for a moment and Hamilton wonders if he will need to save him. Then Laurens says, “Hamilton does not know how to dance.”

Meade laughs. He takes a step in past Laurens, sees the tables pushed back. He looks at Laurens again. “Can he not now?”

“I am yet a work in progress,” Hamilton says.

Laurens looks at Hamilton behind Meade’s back with a smile. Hamilton grins in turn as Meade starts to pull the tables back into order, talking of the British in Philadelphia. For a moment, Hamilton does not think about the war, about his own desire for command, for advancement and glory on the field; he does not think about St. Croix or loss. He only thinks about Laurens looking back at him, Laurens who wants him, who has no intention of leaving or disappearing, who only wants hours of Hamilton all to himself.

“I will have to have more dance lessons,” Hamilton says as he begins to help Meade move the chairs back. “I am hopeless on my own and Laurens is an excellent teacher.”

Laurens watches him from near the door, smiling slowly. “At your service.” 

Hamilton cannot wait to find careful hours alone.

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I have references, mostly because I like to keep track but also because I am a Ravenclaw and always hope that readers will want to learn more! (Can you tell I love the aide-de-camps?)
> 
>  **The Army and Aides**  
> [Washington's headquarters](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Washington%27s_Headquarters_during_the_Revolutionary_War)  
> [Hamilton war timeline](https://ciceroprofacto.tumblr.com/post/137034716831/american-revolution-timeline)  
> [Tench Tilghman](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tench_Tilghman)  
> [John Fitzgerald](https://www.nps.gov/vafo/learn/historyculture/johnfitzgerald.htm)  
> [George Johnston](http://www.mountvernon.org/digital%E2%80%93encyclopedia/article/george%E2%80%93johnston/)  
> [Richard Kidder Meade](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Kidder_Meade_\(colonel\))  
> [Robert Hanson Harrison](http://www.mountvernon.org/digital-encyclopedia/article/robert-hanson-harrison/)  
> [Joseph Reed](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Reed_\(politician\)) (I have justified my prickliness of Reed due to the line about his and Lee questioning Washington's abilities. Ha ha!)
> 
> **Dancing**  
> [Minuet, Handel, Watermusic](https://youtu.be/4yurw5Cf4HY)  
> [Feet positions](http://regencydances.org/paper020pics/positions.jpg)  
> [Dancing masters](https://danceinhistory.com/category/dancers-dancing-masters/page/3/)  
> [Basic steps](https://youtu.be/hBcIfHXKJF4)  
> [18th Century Social dance](https://youtu.be/oPYCuzcJioU)


End file.
